Camilla Hart stared at her reflection in the elevator mirror, adjusting her collar for the third time. Her blouse was one of the last decent pieces she hadn't sold on Poshmark, and her heels were one argument away from snapping. But she looked the part—professional, polished, desperate-but-trying-not-to-look-it.
"Fake it till you make it," she muttered under her breath as the elevator dinged.
The doors slid open to reveal the thirty-fifth floor of Hale & Orion Enterprises—a modern marvel of glass, steel, and silence. It felt more like a futuristic spaceship than an office. Everything gleamed. The floors, the walls, even the receptionist, who barely glanced up from her phone as Camilla approached.
"I'm here for the executive assistant interview. Camilla Hart," she said, offering a polite smile.
The receptionist pointed to a minimalist bench. "He'll call you in."
He?
Camilla didn't have time to ponder before a door behind the reception area swung open.
"Miss Hart?" a deep voice called.
She turned—and forgot how to breathe.
Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ cover shoot. Tall, broad-shouldered, sharp jawline, perfectly tailored navy suit. His eyes—icy gray and unreadable—locked with hers.
"Mr. Hale will see you now."
Oh. So this was Dominic Hale. The CEO. The billionaire. The legend.
Camilla swallowed her nerves and followed him into a sleek office that overlooked the entire city. The view was stunning—but not nearly as much as the man who owned it.
He gestured to a chair. "Sit."
She did, crossing her legs and trying not to stare. Dominic Hale sat across from her, arms folded, expression unreadable. The man radiated control.
"I've read your resume," he said, his voice low and clipped. "Impressive. Columbia graduate. Multiple internships. Excellent references. Why are you applying for an assistant position when you clearly qualify for more?"
Camilla didn't blink. "Because my rent doesn't accept dreams and potential."
A flicker of something—was that amusement?—crossed his face, but it was gone just as fast.
"You're direct."
"I find it saves time."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her like a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve. "I need someone sharp. Efficient. Discreet. My previous assistant lacked... focus."
"Define focus," she replied coolly.
"She got distracted. Easily."
Camilla raised an eyebrow. "By what?"
His lips curved slightly. "By me."
She nearly choked but kept her face neutral. Was this a test?
"I'm not easily distracted, Mr. Hale."
"We'll see."
The silence stretched as he continued to examine her. Camilla met his gaze evenly, her heart pounding like a drumline in her chest. She had no idea what he was thinking—but she wasn't going to let him intimidate her.
Finally, he nodded. "You start Monday. 7 a.m. sharp. Don't be late."
And just like that, the interview was over.
The following Monday, Camilla arrived at exactly 6:57 a.m., coffee in one hand, nerves in the other.
Dominic was already in his office, typing away. He looked up when she entered, but said nothing.
"Coffee," she said, placing the cup on his desk. "No sugar. Just how you like it."
He looked at the cup, then at her.
"I don't remember telling you how I like my coffee."
"You didn't," she said, placing a stack of color-coded folders on his desk. "But I read your assistant logs from last year. You always return anything with sugar. Also, you don't like foam. Which, respectfully, makes you a monster."
A pause. Then—"Efficient and sarcastic. This should be interesting."
Camilla gave him a polite smile and moved to her desk outside his office.
The next few hours were a blur of calendar updates, emails, and phone calls. By noon, Camilla had rescheduled two meetings, handled an angry investor, and somehow ordered a birthday cake for Dominic's mother with under fifteen minutes' notice.
"You're not bad," he said as she handed him a revised quarterly report.
"You sound almost impressed."
"Don't let it go to your head."
She smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The rest of the week passed in a blur. Dominic Hale was as demanding as he was brilliant—quick, sharp, and utterly humorless. But he was fair. He noticed details. He didn't micromanage, but he didn't miss a thing. Camilla found herself oddly fascinated.
One Thursday afternoon, as she was organizing his files, she caught him watching her.
"What?"
"You've lasted longer than most."
She blinked. "It's been four days."
"Exactly."
Camilla smirked. "You must be a joy at parties."
He didn't smile, but something about his gaze softened.
"I don't go to many parties."
"Shocking."
Another pause.
"You're not afraid of me," he said, almost to himself.
"Should I be?"
Most people tiptoed around him. Camilla didn't. She wasn't here to stroke egos or play games. She needed this job. And maybe—just maybe—she liked the challenge.
"No," he said after a long moment. "But most are."
She tilted her head. "You do realize you're a little terrifying, right?"
"That's intentional."
"Well, noted. But I've faced worse."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Like what?"
She stood, collecting her folders. "That's another story."
She turned to leave. But before she reached the door, he called her name.
"Camilla."
She looked back.
"You're not like the others."
She smiled, just a little. "Neither are you."